Exposed at the Office - Sex Stories

Exposed at the Office

... think it's about a twenty minute walk. I can't wait for the replacement bus, because I'll definitely be late. If I hurry, I can probably make it on time...if I go on foot.

But I hadn't reckoned on my heels. Running in them is out of the question. Walking in them is just about bearable, but I am so much slower than I'd have been in my flats. I go about twenty paces, clip-clopping on the busy sidewalk, before I admit it's hopeless. My heart is beating faster; I can feel the prickle of anxiety up and down my spine. I cannot be late. There is no choice. The heels will have to come off.

I steer out of the rush of pedestrians and stop in a doorway, lifting my feet and pulling off the shiny heels one at a time. The sidewalk feels cold and rough under my stockinged feet. They will be absolutely ruined if I try to walk on concrete in them! They will have to go too.

But people are passing all the time! They are already looking at me strangely, in my glamorous clothes holding my heels in my hand. But I have no choice. The stockings have to come off too, and I'll have to walk barefoot.

I lift the hem of my skirt, feeling for the stocking top up my thigh. I stare at the ground, avoiding the stares I know I am attracting as I hook my thumbs into the elastic and carefully peel my stocking down my leg, exposing my skin to the air. I smooth my skirt down to preserve my modesty; as I glance up I see several eyes look away. I know they have been watching me. My heart beats faster as ...

... I lift my skirt on the other side, easing the stocking down my thigh, below my knee, and gathering it carefully over my toes. I try to regulate my breathing, try to calm myself, conscious that every second that ticks past makes me later and later for work. I gather myself, clutching my heels in one hand and my bunched up stocking in the other, and set off down the street.

I don't know what's worse: the filthy, scratchy sidewalk on my bare feet, or the looks I'm getting as I walk rapidly through the throng of people, barefoot and barelegged. I can feel the heat of embarrassment rising through my body, alongside the warmth of perspiration as I rush against time, sweat patches forming under my arms. I can feel the soles of my feet rubbing raw, tiny stones and bits of grit digging into my skin and sending shots of pain up my legs. Fuck...why today? Why me? Is it better to take my time, protect my feet as much as I can and try not to work up too much of a sweat? Or just go for it, get there as fast as possible, and give myself time to clean myself up in the bathroom when I arrive?

I decide on the second option, and speed up, so I am practically running through the street. I push past people, muttering apologies as I go, my skirt flaring out as I move quickly, showing my thighs. I try to hold it down, with my hands full of shoes and stockings, feeling the prickle of tears behind my eyes. "Don't cry," I tell myself. "It'll make your mascara run..."

Crossing the road is the ...